


your body's poetry, speak to me

by pendules



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Awkward First Times, Chapter 39 Spoilers, Couch Sex, Extended Scene, First Time, M/M, The Raven King Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's always loved this old, faithful sofa. When he was a kid, he thought someone could sink right into it like quicksand. Get lost forever if they weren't lucky. It felt like it could be a portal to another dimension before he even knew about the existence of magic, his own or any other kind. Sitting next to Adam like this, still tasting him on his lips, heart thrashing wildly in his chest, skin singing with the memory of his touch, it feels like discovering that all over again.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	your body's poetry, speak to me

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write sofa!fic. Is that a thing now? That should be a thing.
> 
> Warning for awkward teen boy sex. (AND SPOILERS FOR THE RAVEN KING, OF COURSE.)

Adam sits on the far end of the couch in the living room, tilts his head back against the soft, worn leather, just closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, blinking rapidly like he's processing everything that's happened in the last few minutes — or the last year, maybe — brain working at hyperspeed. Ronan hears him exhale as he sits next to him, much closer than necessary. Adam leans into him the minutest amount, his warm thigh pressed against his own, their shoulders touching. Ronan curls his hands into the knees of his jeans to stop them from shaking, sweating, _itching_ — it doesn't work. 

He's always loved this old, faithful sofa. When he was a kid, he thought someone could sink right into it like quicksand. Get lost forever if they weren't lucky. It felt like it could be a portal to another dimension before he even knew about the existence of magic, his own or any other kind. Sitting next to Adam like this, still tasting him on his lips, heart thrashing wildly in his chest, skin singing with the memory of his touch, it feels like discovering that all over again. 

They sit there in silence for a minute or five or ten before all of Adam's muscles seem to relax and he rests his hand right next to Ronan's on his own knee. Ronan looks down and stops breathing as he slowly slides it closer and crosses his pinky over Ronan's. 

They turn their heads at the exact same moment and let their mouths gently brush against each other. Ronan finally releases his breath. He brings his other hand up to run his thumb along his jawline, splay his fingers over the side of his neck. Adam leans up into the kiss and catches his upper lip between his own for a moment before letting go. It's less desperate than it was before but just as certain, just as purposeful.

Ronan presses a soft kiss to his cheek before pulling away entirely. Adam looks surprised at the tender gesture, eyes widening for a second, but there's a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Ronan wants to keep looking at him like this until the continents sink into the sea.

"Do you want to sleep?" he asks, the first words between them since he'd said his name on the porch. Adam absently tangles their hands together properly but doesn't look away from him.

"I've never felt more awake," he says quietly.

"Me too."

"Your pulse is racing," Adam observes, his thumb pressed between Ronan's wrist and his leather bands. 

"You're blushing," Ronan retorts after a moment of staring. He doesn't mean to say it — it's probably embarrassing — but he can't _not_ notice the faint pink tinge on his cheeks now that they're under the electric lights.

"Yeah, I guess." He looks down at Ronan's chest instead of his eyes which is the only visible sign of self-consciousness. 

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because it's _you_ , I guess." It feels honest; it feels like more than he expected.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"I didn't expect it to be like _this_ ," Adam admits.

"Like _what_?"

"So normal. So real. So _right_."

He doesn't know how he feels about that or what the right response to give is. He hadn't thought much about the _after_ either; he really had no idea what the outcome of kissing him would be at all.

Adam takes a breath before continuing. "I just — I thought it would feel like a dream. A vision. A ghost."

"Me?"

"Both of us, maybe." He runs his hand up Ronan's arm, stopping with his grip on his bicep. He drags his gaze back up to his face. "You're so _solid_."

"You are too, you know," he says, lightly stroking his cheekbone.

"I don't know, I feel like I'm — fading." Adam doesn't say, _I'm worried_ , but it's in his eyes and he knows there's no hiding it this close up.

"You won't. I promise." He squeezes his hand.

Adam swallows before saying, his voice hoarse, urgent, "Take your shirt off."

Ronan raises both eyebrows, too caught off-guard to even pretend otherwise.

Adam goes even redder.

"No, I mean — I wanna see your tattoo." 

He takes five seconds to consider that before he nods at him.

"Okay," he says, breathily. He tentatively disentangles himself from Adam's limbs and shifts away on the couch a small distance so that he can pull his tank top over his head. 

He turns around and he feels Adam shift closer to him, feels one knee braced against his hip, feels his palm spread out between his shoulder blades. His breath hitches. Adam brings his face close to his skin, warm breath making Ronan shiver under him, as he focuses on the interlocking barbs and petals and feathers and antlers, tracing his fingertips over the connections carefully and studiously like he's trying to figure out a complex algebraic equation. Figure his soul out. 

Adam kisses the spot at the center of his back where Ronan knows there's a fragile, budding rose.

He has to quickly turn back around to catch his hand in his own and bring it to his mouth. He kisses each of his fingers in turn.

Ronan draws the tip of his thumb between his lips and Adam gasps.

Before he can prepare himself for it, Adam's wrapping his arms around his shoulders, firmly, and climbing halfway into his lap. 

Ronan almost tips backwards with the force of his kiss, but he manages to hold on to his hips and stay upright on the couch. He carefully slides backwards until he's sitting against the armrest, Adam adjusting himself above him until he's straddling him properly, knees bracketing his thighs.

Adam runs his fingers over his nape, over the base of his skull, over his buzzed head. He hungrily sucks on his bottom lip for a long moment before he hastily pulls away again, looking uncertain for the first time.

"Is this okay?" he asks breathlessly, mouth red and plump.

Ronan nods eagerly. "Yes." And then, lower, " _Fuck_." 

Adam puts his tongue in his mouth and explores it like he's searching for a secret, some other hidden part of him he hasn't found the words to tell him yet. It feels the same way it had when he was looking at his tattoo; it feels like tiny explosions going off all over his body. 

He's pretty sure neither of them have ever done this before and it's sloppy and chaotic and awkward and he can't get enough of it.

Adam laughs slightly hysterically against his mouth when Ronan tries his own luck and his teeth get in the way, but he doesn't pull away. Ronan threads his fingers into his hair and reverently kisses his mouth, the sensitive skin under his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. He slides his hands under Adam's t-shirt to run his fingers over his ribs and the knobs of his spine like there's a whole new language waiting to be discovered there. A code to be deciphered. Instructions for care. He'd spend a lifetime learning all the ways to love Adam with his mouth and hands and entire body. Adam doesn't tense up or move away from him. He knows that he can feel where Ronan's hard against him too.

He lifts his head to meet his gaze again. "Can I?" His hands are on the waistband of his jeans now.

He nods, hair brushing Ronan's forehead.

"Have you ever —?" He's not going to finish the question — _had sex, gotten off with someone_ — and they both know it.

Adam shakes his head, once.

He doesn't ask in return; they both know the answer to that, too.

He doesn't know what the hell he's doing, but he knows he _wants_ , wants _so much_ so absolutely and suddenly. It should be frightening, setting the oceans on fire, but it just looks beautiful to him from this vantage point. Beautiful like Adam's eyes, fierce and bright. So he unzips Adam's jeans and shoves his hand inside and gets him out of his underwear. He just stares down at him for a moment — hard and straining and gorgeous, the head flushed dark — his mouth going dry, before wrapping his hand around the shaft in earnest and meeting his eyes. Adam doesn't look away, shifts even closer in his lap. It's clumsy — the awkward angle of his hand and the lack of leverage their current position affords him and the stupid fucking sofa threatening to swallow them — but he works his fist over him as smoothly and deliberately as he can. Adam sighs, slowly thrusting into his hand, meeting his strokes, increasing the friction between them, his thigh rubbing dangerously against Ronan's still-jean-clad erection.

Ronan twists his hand around the head of his dick and he comes hard, moans muffled into his neck, hot stripes shooting across Ronan's bare stomach.

He doesn't stop grinding his hips down on Ronan's, though, and all it takes is a few vigorous thrusts and that familiar single-minded look of determination on his face, turned on _him_ this time.

They both feel it when Ronan comes in his pants. "Asshole," he mutters, fondly. Adam laughs breathily against his mouth, again. Ronan's never going to get tired of that sensation, of feeling like he's being revived by Adam's utterly unbridled happiness.

He wipes his stomach off with his discarded tank that he finds bunched-up somewhere under their bodies. Adam furrows his eyebrows like he didn't expect sex to be this spontaneous or this messy or both.

He slowly shifts off of him until they're lying on their sides facing each other. It's a tight fit on the narrow sofa — they're definitely not children anymore — but they make it work, one of Ronan's legs caught between Adam's, Adam's face pressed into the crook of his neck, arms crossed over each other's waists. They fit like the unlikely puzzle pieces of his tattoo. Things that feel disparate at first until you hold them up just the right way or look at them in the right light and they seem to bleed right into each other. 

Their toes brush on the armrest. Adam's hair tickles the underside of his chin. He presses a kiss to the top of his head.

When their breathing's steady again, Adam slides his body up the slightest fraction until they're at the same eye level. 

He's close enough that Ronan can count his fair eyelashes, that he can feel his breath on his cheek; it feels even more intimate than kissing, just watching each other, Adam's sharp, intense eyes roaming all over his face, nothing left unexposed. He kisses a freckle on the bridge of his nose and Adam scrunches it up adorably.

He smiles contentedly and reaches down to guide Adam's hand up to his mouth. He closes his eyes, kisses his knuckles and then the centre of his palm before sliding it back down between their bodies to rest against his own heart.

Adam gently curls his long, slender fingers into his skin like he wants to touch _more_. His chest feels warm and glowy, like it's full of fireflies not yet dreamt into being.

"We should get cleaned up," Adam says, eventually, like he thinks he _should_ say it.

"Yeah," Ronan agrees, but they don't. They don't move. Ronan holds him tight against him and they fall into blissful, dreamless slumber.

"Happy Birthday" is the last thing Adam says before he drifts off.

*

Ronan's sitting on the rug with his back against the sofa, a bowl of cereal in his hands, watching some black-and-white movie on mute, when Adam wakes up. He stretches, yawns behind him, old leather creaking under him, before propping himself up on his elbow. Ronan turns his head to glance back at him, one side of his mouth quirking upwards of its own accord. Adam kisses his shoulder, the slope of his neck, murmuring "Good morning" into his skin, his hand resting on his collarbone. Ronan drops the bowl onto the floor, twists his body around to kiss him on the mouth. Long and slow and lingering. Like they have all the time in the world.

Adam rubs his palm over Ronan's head playfully, grinning. "You know, you should grow it back out."

"Don't tell me what to do," he says, smiling beatifically. 

"It'll be something to hold on to," he says casually.

"Oh, yeah? You're into that, are you?" 

"I'm into _you_ ," he says, his voice all unguarded, early-morning honesty.

Ronan brushes some dusty hair off his forehead, kisses him there. "I'm into you, too," he says quietly.


End file.
